Mistral
by Peregrine2
Summary: Summary:Vaughn's thoughts about Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.
1. Default Chapter

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

December 20th

New York

Christmas is almost upon us, with its glad tidings and ho ho hos ringing in the New Year. Bad music abounds, blaring from cheap speakers, spreading its tinny cheer, accelerating my already aching head to migraine status. Crowds of irate shoppers grab at every bargain and when I get to the counter, I'm left with Brut and Jean Nate in the 15 oz. size.

"Excuse me," I start politely, stopping when a hennaed young woman with overly kohled eyes raises a black fingernail and goes back to her private phone conversation. Two or three minutes ticks by on the cheap knockoff that passes for a time piece and I round the corner of the counter. It's lunch hour and I have to be back in less than ten minutes, and if I don't find something soon, I'm screwed. As in hosed. Totally fucked. The girl turns her back on me and hisses something into the phone. Great. It's Christmas rush and she's having a fight with her goddamned boyfriend. 

"Do you mind?" A hint of a French accent slips out and she straightens suddenly. Dropping the phone and practically lunging at me. Now that I have her avid, even adoring attention, I add, "Issey Miyake."

"Wot?" she says through a wad of Cockney and clove gum.

I contain my disgust. "Perfume. Do you have it?"

She looks at me blankly and shakes her head. "Sorry, 'guv. Never heard of it." 

Taking a cue from my snobby mother, I sniff the air like I smell something rotten. "I thought _Bendel's_ had everything."

The girl rolls her eyes and points to the front of the store. "Ask the manager," she says tiredly, already moving past my French accent and seeing my half pressed suit and crooked tie. With a smirk, she snatches up the phone and picks up where she left off.

Shit. The accent works every time in LA. When I try squeezing past Aunt Bertha and her coterie of gal pals, I get stomped and goosed before making it safely to the end of a line that winds through the aisles like the kid from Family Circus.

Suddenly the Jean Nate doesn't seem so bad. With a tired sigh, I saunter out to the sidewalk and manage to flag a cab on my first try. As the Indian driver's head bobs to the deafening thud of Iron Maiden, I wonder what I'm doing here. 

_Christmas in New York._

Alice's idea, not mine. "We can skate at Rockefeller Center and rent a room at The Plaza," she effuses, her dark eyes lighting up for the first time since her father got sick. "And ride in one of those carriages through Central Park."

It's hard to dampen her enthusiasm and she waxes on about this wonderful, romantic weekend that comes straight from all those chick flicks. You know the kind I'm talking about. 

_Serendipity. It Had to Be You. Sleepless in Seattle._

I've slept through them the best of them, so I can speak as an expert on this subject. 

The driver cranks the music and Bruce Dickinson's yowl morphs into Rob Halford in heat. The worst part isn't the driver's taste in music, it's the fact that I recognize it. And hell…a tiny part of me even likes it. It brings me back to days of playing air guitar in nothing but a towel, butt hanging off my lip, long hair dusting my shoulders, cracked mirror reflecting the deadness in my eyes as I dress for the role I played in those days.

Hour after hour in smoky biker bars, playing nothing but pool. Winning more than I lost, keeping me in cigarettes and beer. Rail thin body bent over, lips pursed in concentration as I set up my shots. Hiding my eyes with perpetual shades.

For what it's worth, it was a good life. I set my own hours and answered to no one. Not my mother, or any of her sisters. A shiftless existence to be sure, but there was no pressure. No responsibility. 

I liked that part the best, because I'd spent most of my life pleasing my mother. Making up for the husband that left her behind. Helpless to do anything but depend on me. All through high school and my first year of college, I worked long hours. All so my mother could live in the style to which she was accustomed. And I didn't think much about it, because I felt I owed her a lifetime or two. To make up for Dad not being there. Hey, what can I say, it's the way I was. 

Anyway, it all came to a head on the day when she kicked Trish out of the house. It was close to Christmas and the house was full of pumpkin spice and eggnog. Relatives jammed the rafters and tempers flared. And when she caught Trish fucking the college boy next door, she tossed her out on her ear. Followed by her valise and carton of cigarettes. And there was my aunt, defiant green eyes raised to the leaden sky, rain falling around her in sheets, middle finger raised, looking happier than I've ever seen her. 

I stood there watching from the attic and she waved at me. Then she gestured for me to follow as she danced down the path in her teetery shoes. Skating over the slick leaves to wait for the cross town bus. And then I heard my mother, sniping to her sisters in that infuriating way she had. Sharp, stinging words that caught me up with their viciousness, a torrent of hate. All because of Trish and the things she dared to do. Defying the others. Being who she wanted to be. 

_The way I wanted to be. Away from my mother. _

And that decided it. I grabbed some clothes and tossed them in my gym bag. Found the old watch that belonged to my father and slid it on my wrist. Pocketed my few CDs and the pack of smokes. Grabbed up the change on the bureau and my Mets baseball cap. And before the startled eyes of our company, I walked out. No good-byes, and for sure, no happy holidays.

Not then, and certainly not now, with my permanently wrinkled brow and my Columbo coat, here in NY for the holiday from hell.

But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's back track a bit, to the office Christmas party and my continuing inability to say no.


	2. 2

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

Actually, this all started more than two weeks ago when Martha accosted me. I usually manage to avoid her, because she's on Six and I get off at Five. But on one particularly unlucky morning, she catches me on the elevator.

"So how is Alice?" she asks as the doors close.

My mouth forms the right words but my brain disengages. You see, Martha and Alice have an unfortunate connection. Alice's mother is Martha's best friend, and Martha is the one who introduced us. At the time, I was young and even more stupid than I am now, so I didn't see the big picture. Because at every turn, there was Martha. Asking me how things were going so she could report back to her friend. Agonizing and intrusive to someone like me, who hates people prying into my affairs.

If you think that's bad, believe me when I tell you it gets worse. If you guessed that Syd is mixed up in this, you'd be right. But how can that be? She's a double, rarely seen in the office. And our meetings are clandestine enough to shut most everyone out. Except Martha, who handles all her paperwork. She knows every mission by heart, and knows when I fly out with her. OK, maybe she doesn't know about Taipei, but she knows the rest. 

So anyway, she asks about Alice, and I talk about Alice's father and what he meant to her. And it should be nice and safe, right? But Martha manages to skate past that and dives right into romantic weekends in New York and getting away from certain people. Like Syd. Oh, she doesn't have to say it, but I know she's thinking it.

The sweat breaks out on my brow, because Alice and I only talked about this yesterday. And it's not like we decided anything, because quite frankly, I want no part of it. Romantic getaways are one thing, but New York in December is an anathema.

_It reminds me of every bad thing in my life._

It's the city where my father died. Shot execution style, dumped in an alley like a bag of trash. Discovered amidst piles of wrapping paper and ribbon. Dying on the coldest day of the year. Left without dignity.

And it's the place where I met Sharon, the woman who turned me around and urged me to go back to college. For her, I gave it all up. Smoking, drinking, and gambling. All flushed down the toilet with my former life. 

The last time I saw her was on the skating rink at Rockefeller Center. Twisting and turning like Dorothy Hamill, tongue out to catch the spray of fat snowflakes that spit from the sky. And then she was gone. Ripped from my life by a psycho that was never caught.

_New York is a death trap. And it's the last place I want to be._

So can you blame me for changing the subject? I ask about the first thing that comes to my mind. The office Christmas party. Man, was that a mistake. 

"Would you like to volunteer?" Martha sounds way too sweet and I know I'm caught.

"Volunteer?" I squeak.

"You can be my elf and hand out presents." Her smile widens at the thought of me wearing an elf hat. 

There are pointy elf hats and reindeer hats with antlers. "I don't…you know, I think I'll be away that day."

She flashes her horse's teeth at me. "Actually, your itinerary is wide open through January."

When the doors finally spill me out onto Five, I am followed by her promise that she will add my name to the list.

Great. So I get to my office, and Weiss has his butt parked in my chair. He laughs at the look on my face. "Martha again?"

"Sort of." I sink into the folding chair and toss my briefcase on the couch. 

Eric steeples his fingers and leans forward. "Spill."

How do I talk about what's really on my mind? It's always about Syd these days and the feelings that never escape me. And it's about guilt. Leading Alice on, making her think we have a chance. If I was half as honorable as she makes me out to be, I'd tell her the truth. But there's her father…so what do I do about that? "It's about Wally's."

Wally's was the bar where we ran into Syd and Will. And the look on her face. Crushed. Like maybe she could handle the thought of it, but the reality of seeing us together was more than too much. It devastated her. Oh, she talked a good game, but I caught the wounded look she threw over her shoulder. 

"Andrews pulled the tape, but why did you…" His voice trails off when he sees the coin in my fingers. "You ran into Syd, didn't you?"

"Yeah," I admit raggedly, dragging my fingers through my already tousled hair as I perch on the edge of my desk.

Weiss sighs as he gets to his feet. "You know what you have to do."

Eric and I have gone to the mat on this one, and there's never a winner. "I can't. Not now."

He shakes his head at my attitude, but drops the subject. "Oh, I almost forgot. Secret Santa. I'm in charge this year."

The hat comes out and I thrust my fingers into a mountain of names. When I see my choice, I almost manage to laugh. "Great. And I'm one of the elves."

Now he smiles, but there's no joy in it. "Who'd you get?"

When I hold it up for inspection, his grin falls away as he backs out the door. "You're in deep shit, my friend. Once Martha finds out…you're so screwed."

It's not like this is anything new. Hell, I think it all ended on October 1st when she walked through that door. Crashing into my life and sending my heart skidding down the same dangerous path that takes me to Fifth and Broadway. 

Where she waits for her next assignment. 

Here with me.


	3. 3

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

So, backtracking again. The party draws closer. Memos proliferate. Donate items to the local food pantry. Open our pockets (if not our hearts) to local charities. Drop off presents for homeless kids. Sign up to bring in food. I add cookies (store bought) to the growing list. Join a group of office carolers to bring joy to the entire office (I kid you not). 

Tacky decorations appear on every pole and cubicle wall. Strings of dime store lights. Plastic snowmen and eight not so tiny reindeer, complete with Rudolph's Jimmy Durante schnozz. Elevators and hallways full of canned holiday tunes, competing with Muzak for the snooze award. And in Martha's office, the piece de resistance: a life-sized crèche with animated figures. 

Detailed instructions appear on my desk: the care and feeding of elf hats. As I examine my pointed little head in the glare from my monitor, I notice that something finally overshadows my nose (for once). That's when I hear the door open, followed by an amused cough.

"Hey." 

It's her. Hair swept into a ponytail, lissome curves covered in black silk. Two steps closer and I catch her scent as she drops into a chair, dimples deepening when I start flushing. The hat disappears into a drawer and I attempt to form a coherent sentence, slightly intoxicated from yet another whiff of her perfume. Pure heaven in a bottle (ask Will what it is; gift problem solved). "So what brings you here?"

"Paperwork," she says with a groan. "You know, for Kashmir."

"Right." My head bobs like a dashboard dog and I start craving my coin, which I've vowed to give up. Needing (and not having) its focus, I actually meet her gaze, startled by the flecks of green and gold in those hazel depths. "So, the party…I saw your name on the food list."

"You sound surprised." And she sounds flattered that I'd notice at all. Can't tell you what that does to me, all dry mouth and rumbling stomach. 

I nod. "It doesn't seem like your thing."

She smiles nervously and I watch the way she knots her fingers together, telling me she's not immune, that maybe I make her a little nervous. "It isn't, but…things have changed since last year."

Good answer. And we're not even on Family Feud. "Did Martha try recruiting you?"

Her fingers form into antlers and her smile reappears. "She failed. What about you?"

I show her the hat. "Santa's little helper."

Syd's eyes take me in, crossing the breadth of my shoulders and stopping on my lips. "I beg to differ," she offers huskily.

My breath catches at the predatory look that flashes across her face. "Maybe I'll see you there."

"Maybe." She raises her arms and I gulp when her shirt stretches across her breasts. A clear view that confirms my deepest fantasies. High, tight, and very sweet, unrestrained by a bra of any kind. Heat shoots straight to my groin and I am grateful for the cover of my desk. Syd stands and the shirt works loose from her trousers, revealing a quick flash of her perfectly sculpted abs. I swallow again and try to bury the thought that she is also aroused, that I am only imagining the flare of her nostrils and the fine beads of sweat on her forehead. 

The space between us grows very small and hot, thick with ropes of sexual tension that I long to break in the only way I know how, wanting to bury my face in her hair and subsist on the taste of her skin against my lips. With a tremulous smile, I say, "In case you don't make it…"

Her fingers find my hand and her thumb caresses my palm softly. The breath catches in my throat when she says, "Happy holidays…_Michael_."

The crash of cymbals breaks my reverie and I see we've reached our destination. And she waits, huddled against the cold in a long black coat, chestnut hair cascading in waves to her shoulders. With a glad smile, I close the door on speed metal and open the door to new possibilities, forgetting for a moment that Alice is waiting at the Plaza, expectant and deserving far better than I am giving her. But for now, I am where I want to be.


	4. 4

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

It's every man's dream to be a Lucky Charm. Magically delicious and all that. Pots of gold…oh right, that's a leprechaun. Whatever. Elves, dwarves, they're all the same to me. My knowledge of fantasy resides in a microscopic thimble that only Martha can access. And damnit, she has my number. She can blow the whistle at any time, so I walk a very fine line. Never smiling too much at certain people. And definitely not enjoying myself. Never that.

Anyway, the day of the party is sunny and bright. Unusually warm for LA in December. It's no matter to me. Rain or shine, this day is bound to bite. Any time that Martha has the reins, there's hell to pay. For someone (probably me).

It starts off like all such days, with burnt coffee, dog vomit, and broken shoelaces. By the time I extricate myself from the downtown snarl, I'm in my usual morning snit. Morning and me do not get along, and Martha, being the group secretary, insists on promptness. As in on-the-dot 8AM or else. There's no excuse she can't shoot down. So I show up, arms full of day old cookies and the leaden brownies that Alice insists we all love. By the time I deposit my treasures, Martha has me in her sights. Trust me, that's a really bad thing. It means I get volunteered for every shit job. Like setting up and tearing down. 

With a shudder, I watch arrivals and departures, wishing I could join the latter group. Presents pile on the table and I slip my own slim offering between a giant stuffed teddy bear and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Are you amazed at my prescience (a la Trish)? Do you wonder how I know the scoop? Well, it starts with an E, and I ain't talking ESP. My friend the yo-yo wielding Santa has the low down on every gift. Who signed up and who begged off. Who overspent and who wrapped up the coffee mug from last year's Yankee swap. But no one knows my secret.

On the afternoon when I pulled her name, I met Will up at Griffith Park. And we shot the breeze for a bit, like guys always do. Sports, politics, sports (what did you expect, arts and culture?). After we get through the preliminaries, I start talking about Alice and wanting to get her something special. Maybe perfume. And that's when I ask if he can get Syd to recommend anything.

Will tries not to smile at my transparency, but he goes along with it. Within an hour, he has the answer. Issey Miyake. I scratch my head and try to wrap myself around the name. Funny how I remember it now. Ingrained on my very being. 

So my tiny, unassuming package hides behind the others, waiting for someone who may never arrive. And that is borne out as the party kicks into high swing, fueled by rotten music and the booze wagon. Yeah, you heard what I said. Booze, in these totally PC times. Our local group has always done this, but it got worse after 911. It's like they were laced up tight for 364 days and came teetotalling out for the holiday party. So we elves suffer the wrath of groping hands and fetid breath. Worse than any sale at Filene's Basement. 

As the hours tick by, the voices grow louder and the tallest of tales are expanded to squares. And just when I think it's safe to exit stage left, Kendall shows up with Jack Bristow. Looking totally sober and headed in my direction. This is never a good thing. Trust me on this one. Facing Kendall on a good day is like battling Attila the Hun with a hangover.

"Having a good time?" He says this with a totally straight face. Eyes skidding past my chapeau and stopping at his watch. 

The noise that comes from my mouth is a cross between a grunt and a burp. No more than he deserves for such a stupid question. "You need me for something?" I ask flatly, not missing the amusement in Jack's eyes.

"Walk with me, Mr. Vaughn." 

I'm about to ditch the hat when I think of something. Without meeting anyone's eyes, I grab her present and hand it over to Jack. "Make sure she gets this."

Jack's nod is brisk, but I see something almost…human behind the usual cold reserve. He watches as I follow Kendall, alone like he always is at these functions. A man who lost his heart (if not his nerve) to the business. Everything I don't want to be.

Kendall gets straight to the point. "I hear you'll be in Manhattan this weekend."

That's news to me. "Maybe. So what?"

"Ever been to The Cloisters?" Only about a hundred times. And I can see that he knows this.

"A few times. Why?" Playing it cool is the only way to fly.

"They have quite the collection. I went up there with my wife over the summer." Kendall has never, ever shared any personal information. And you know what? I really didn't want to know anything about him. 

I nod politely and wonder if I should beat the point out of him. Better that this small talk. "It's a nice place," I agree.

"And I hear they have nice parties," he says idly, blue eyes actually twinkling at some joke that is lost on me.

Now I shrug. "And?"

Kendall finally gives it up. "There's a charity event on Saturday night. Some real high rollers will be there. Including Alexei Markarov."

I open my eyes wide at that name, for who hasn't read the man's dossier? Russian industrialist recruited by the KGB at the height of the Cold War, now a top dog at K-Directorate. Considered one of their best officers. Decorated up the ass by the powers that be. Virtually untouchable. "I see." But really I didn't.

That wintry smile is enough to put Jack Frost to shame. "He's a dangle."

Damn. Markarov wants to come over to our side. "So you think I can bring him in?"

Kendall shakes his head and hands me a folder. When I read the itinerary, my brows raise in disbelief. "Can't someone else go?"

He actually laughs at this one. "You're not my first choice, Agent Vaughn, but your proximity is damned convenient."

They've backed me into a corner on this one. "I'll make arrangements…" I start, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

"Already done. You leave tonight."

So here I am on a busy street corner, hands in pockets as I brave the cold wind and Sydney Bristow.


	5. 5

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

We shouldn't be meeting like this, and both of us know it. She even looks slightly sheepish as she smiles shyly and tucks her hair behind her ear. "I know we're flouting protocol, but…"

"It's OK." There's no need to explain feelings that defy explanation. When I got her call, I came right away. Really, no force on Earth can stand in my way when it comes to Syd. I'd do anything for her. Lay down my life, wear an elf's hat, you name it. 

"Thanks for coming," she says breathlessly, waiting for the light to send us across the street to the nearby cafe.

Syd is a veritable chameleon. She can do anything and be anything she wants to be. And yet, the real Syd is rather reticent and even…_delicate_. I know that's not a word most people would associate with her, but I see it all the time. More than meets the eye, that's for sure. That's why I'm having trouble connecting today's version of Sydney with the darkly sensual siren that visited me the other day. I keep staring at her, wondering if I only imagined the way she came on to me. You can call me crazy, and maybe I am. 'Cuz guys aren't supposed to question their good fortune, we're supposed to strike while the iron is hot. But kiss and tell has never been my M.O.

The café is crowded and smoky, but we manage to squeeze through the lunch crowd to a booth near the back. "Coffee," Syd says hoarsely, hands shaking as she offers a tight smile to the harried waitress. She waits for the woman to leave before she levels her gaze on me, two hazelnuts surrounded by a fine haze of freckles. I wonder that I never noticed this before, but then, I've never seen her without makeup. Her skin is so white that it's almost translucent, mesmerizing me with its unearthly beauty. I start to blink when I realize she's spoken.

"What was that?" I cough to hide my embarrassment.

"The reason I called is because I wanted to explain…about the other day." She knots her fingers together and when she sees me watching, her hands disappear into her lap.

So I'm not crazy. "OK," is all I say before sipping at my coffee.

"I don't usually act that way. It was…_totally_ not me, you know?" Syd babbles nervously. Then she stops for a moment to regain her composure and stares at me hard. Like she is trying to figure something out. With a small smile, she continues, "I was at Francie's restaurant, and I guess I drank a few too many glasses of Merlot. So whatever happened…can we just forget it?"

I nod reluctantly. "Sure." She waits for my smile of reassurance and I see her sigh in relief. Like some huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders. If only it were that easy for me, who traffics with forbidden fruit, dying on the vine as I smolder away in frustration, knowing I am short changing the one person who loves me unconditionally. With no strings of any kind. 

With that accomplished, Syd gets to her feet and drops some money on the table. "So I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Of course," I reply quietly, faintly disturbed by the way she can dismiss me so casually. Or maybe that's part of her act. Hell, I don't know anymore.

Syd grasps my forearms and smiles tremulously. "Thanks, Vaughn. For _everything_."

And on that cryptic note, she waltzes down the aisle and out the door. Leaving me with the perpetually confused look that I stole from Hugh Grant. After a few more sighs, I figure it's time to return to my one last hold on reality that awaits me at The Plaza.


	6. 6

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

I get to the hotel and she's not even there. With a slight air of disbelief, I read her chatty note about meeting up with some gal pals for lunch and could she meet me at Tavern on the Green for dinner?

Alice is a good person. Really. But she had this bad habit of spending money I don't have. I have wealthy relatives, so she's convinced that I'm rich by osmosis. When I talk about family money being far away, I mean across the Atlantic and tucked inside some Swiss bank vault. Belonging to Grandmere Delorme and managed by her attorney. Trust fund baby, me? Ha. No one contributed a dime to my education. I did it all myself. And so what if Trish lives in one of the wealthiest sections of DC in a restored townhouse? She's never floated me a dime, and I've never asked for her help.

I'm a government servant with a salary to match my lowly status. So if you wonder why nights at The Plaza and dinners at four star restaurants dismay me, wonder no more. OK, it's only money, and it makes her happy. But why can't she be happy on her own salary? In all the years I've known her, she's never coughed up a red cent. Mention the word 'Dutch' and she gets cross-eyed. I've paid her way on every last date. And the longer I know her, the more I'm convinced that I've met a younger version of my mother. 

God, how depressing is that? I flop on the bed and let my thoughts drift the way they often do when I'm torqued about something. Alice has changed in the last year. She cut her beautiful, blonde hair and now she looks like a younger version of Mia Farrow with her huge eyes, and wispy hair. I hate it, but how can you fault someone when they cut their hair for charity? And every last penny of her meager salary goes to her church. She not only looks like a nun, she is a nun. Lest you think I'm getting any, let me assure you that her legs stay crossed. She's learned the art of undressing inside her clothes and she probably knows how to straddle the loo without breaking a sweat. Bidets be damned. 

Think we have a room with a single bed? Guess again. It's twin beds and pillow fights and footie pajamas. Ever seen a grown woman with footies? Hell, they probably match Martha's. I thought I was getting Victoria's Secret and I finished with Land's End.

I have miles to go before I sleep, and I ain't talking Robert Frost. There are countless hours to burn before tomorrow's meet, and my agile mind is cooking up all sorts of fun. Like the carry-on bag on the bureau. The one item I planned on taking with me, saving me from checking a bag. All was right with the world until that one, last minute phone call interrupted my nap. 

"We have some goodies for the New York office. Think you can drop them off?" Ah, Martha sounds so sweet when she wants a favor.

"Don't you usually mail them?" It's a fair question, and I'm not a goddamned messenger boy.

She grows silent, and I imagine that she's picking at her cuticles. Troubled at my bad attitude, especially at this time of year. "Langley cut our budget."

Of course. It's not even worth an argument. "What do I have to do?"

"Deliver each item in person. Let them know how much we appreciate their support."

Fuck me. What support would that be? Why isn't NY handling this operation? Why was I called across country at the last minute? And why is Syd here? I stifle the Edith in me and repeat her last words. "In person. Right. No problem."

No problem turned into two boxes of the finest Cuban cigars (Cohiba), two flasks of cognac (Martell), and several Rolex watches (genuine). Whoever wasn't handing out the bonuses this year funneled the funds into lux items. I stare down at the contents of my suitcase and think of some very old friends. People who appreciate the finer things in life. With a grin, I shuck my monkey suit and replace it with the leather and denim I hid under the tux. Along with my baseball cap and Nikes. Without checking for messages or bothering to answer her note, I sling the carry-on over my shoulder and head toward the New York I once knew.

***** 

15 years have passed, but they remember me. Tito and Earl slap my palm and make jokes about my haircut. And when I tell them what I do for work, they bust a gut laughing.

"Do you kick any spy ass?" Earl hisses in my ear, ruining my perfect shot. 

I shake my head with a sigh. "Don't I wish."

"What about those Bond girls?" Tito elbows Earl and they start making googly eyes at me.

"I've met a few." Only one really matters to me.

"Gone 'under cover' with any of them?" More snickering from Earl as he takes his best shot. The ball drops in the pocket and I ignore the ache in my heart.

"Maybe," I say noncommittally, watching as he clears all solids from the table.

"Sounds like no to me," jokes Tito as he cues up for the next game. 

All I do is smile and take a long swig off my beer, feeling the buzz start to chase my headache away. Pushing back all thoughts that these guys are morons and the only way I could ever stand them was under the haze of alcohol. The night wears on and after my fourth beer, I hand out the first round of cigars. "Do you like?" I say through a cloud of expensive blue smoke.

"Ooh, yeah." Earl stares at the brand name and his eyes bug out. "Are these contraband?"

"Could be." These were intended for Deputy Director Randall. I'll make sure to thank him for sharing his booty with us. 

When the Martell is uncapped, they huddle around me. "You don't want to be drinking that in here. Reg'll boot your ass if he catches ya."

"He won't." They follow me to the alley and once we get our first taste of fine French cognac, it's all over. Two bottles disappear in the wink of an eye.

"What else you got in there?" Tito barks, stopping to piss on the wall while we weave toward the door.

"Nothin' much," I slur, suddenly remembering that the two watches are shoved in my back pocket. Insurance in case I get mugged.

"Any more smokes?" Earl shoves someone aside and reclaims the pool table in the back. He reigns here, and no one messes with him.

"Sure." I line each of their pockets and keep the last one for myself. As I puff and shoot a perfect game of pool, I wave bye to my last hold on reality, sinking back to a life I used to know so well. Not caring that it claimed me, at least for a night. 


	7. 7

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

My eyes open and I quickly wish I was dead. Thor's hammer is pulverizing my brain and Loki is dancing on my shoulder, taunting me for my stupidity. When I look up, my vision doubles and my stomach turns over. Through my bleary squint, I see a ceiling of solid wood and feel my mattress of sawdust over Formica. I slither a few feet and realize that I've spent the night under a pool table. With Tito and Earl as bunk mates. As they snore peacefully, I stumble against a wall and sink back to the floor. I try pressing the light on my watch, but my fingers keep sliding off its shiny surface.

I swear to myself in my mother tongue and try to think of another strategy. Try is the operative word here, because rational thought seems to elude me. The floor is tilting and there aren't any windmills to save me. The lurid blue light from a beer sign draws my attention, and I decide to crawl in that direction. 

Two inches turn into two feet and I start to make progress, knees sloshing through spilled beer and other unmentionables. I reach the bar and my head cracks against a stool. As I rub my head, I spot a phone and wobble over to it. In my attempts to pick it up, the receiver crashes from its cradle and reverberates painfully in my skull. I lean over to snatch up the cord and lose my balance, barking my shins against the bar and knocking over three stools on my way down. Deciding that maybe the phone is a lost cause since I can't seem to remember any numbers, I fish out my cell phone.

After fumbling and cursing for several long minutes, I manage to turn it on. The time displays and I'm sure I'm hallucinating. 10 AM. 

_Nope. Can't be right. Let's try again._

10:01 _AM_.

_Shit. There's something I have to do. Today. But I can't remember._

This tiny little icon flashes at me and I think it says something about voice mail. So I press the 1 and it dials into my mailbox. I stop again…passwords…it won't let me in…and maybe I'm thinking too hard…so I try to remember patterns. And it finally comes to me. 1127. With my head leaning against the bar, I listen to the announcement that I have 21 messages.

Alice, calling 10 times. Worried sick, where am I, ready to call the police, waiting back at the hotel for my call, noticed that my things are missing, why didn't I leave a note, how could I do this to her, leaving for home.

Martha (who else) is wedged between each of those calls. Politely asking me to call the home office, wondering if I delivered the presents, explaining that I'm delinquent in getting back to her, NY is anxiously awaiting my arrival, Deputy Director Randall has taken a personal interest in my welfare, Alice is very worried and please call.

The last message worries me the most. Loud static crackles, nearly taking off my ear with its intensity. It subsides slightly and I hold the phone closer, hearing the low throb of someone's voice. The words repeat several times and I still can't make them out. I increase the volume and that's when a familiar voice punches through my haze.

_"Alex…New York…all dead…"_

Cold shoots through me as I listen again, sure I am wrong. The sequence repeats and plays itself out again, chilling me to the bone.

_There can be no mistake. It's Sharon._

I'm smashed, but I'm not crazy. She did this once before when she spoke through Trish. And she's doing it again. All on her own.

When such things happen, I usually call Trish, but she's probably away for the holidays. She says they depress her, so she goes somewhere sunny. And normally I wouldn't bother her, but this is her field.

With shaking hands, I call up her home phone number. Her service picks up and reports that Madame is out of town. They'd be happy to take a message…I cut them off in irritation. 

I'm out of options, and I'm really in trouble. Drunk and nearly out of my mind with fright, my motor skills are fried, and my vision is completely shot.

For a moment, I rest my head in my hands and let my thoughts float away. Tripping through the inky darkness, floundering in a sea of infection, staring through a tent at her chocolate eyes.

I grip the phone and listen to it connect. On the third ring, her soft voice answers.

"I need your help."


	8. 8

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

I remember it all as a dream. Her arriving in a cab, all leather and suede in a cloud of Japanese mind silk, strong hands raising me to eye level, inspecting me for damage, smoothing my hair away from my face with velvet fingers. 

"What happened here?" Syd asks, keen eyes surveying the room with the professional flair of the consummate spy that she is.

"History." My tongue is thick against my lips as I force the word out.

She nods, seeming to understand that words are not an option right now. With an arm slung around my shoulders, she murmurs, "Let's take this one step at a time."

More like microsteps. New stars form and galaxies spin out of existence in the time that it takes to get to the cab. When I finally settle back against the seat, I close my eyes and try to shut out the incessant assault on my senses that batters me from every direction. Horns honking, whistles blowing, kids yelling and screaming. The noxious curtain of exhaust that blankets the air. And the searing orange light of the morning sun through my eyelids. "Th-thanks," I stammer, shivering inside the thin shell of my leather coat.

She squeezes my left hand in reassurance and I clutch her fingers like a lifeline. My only port in the storm that surrounds my life. I sigh heavily and my head slumps against her shoulder. "I was surprised to hear from you."

"Umm…" The taste in my mouth is enough to stop a charging elephant at 50 paces. "No one else."

"Do you remember why we're here?" Quietly muttered to avoid detection from the nosy driver. I shake my head and feel her shoulders tense as she thinks about this. "Not good."

"Nope." I crack one eye open and find myself staring at the delicate swirl of her ear. The longer I stare, the more surreal its folds become. "Nice lobes."

"What?" When she turns her face, I see how alive she is. Crackling with an energy that defies logic. How anyone can look this way after the night I've had is beyond my grasp.

"Quark." I smile at my own joke, sure she has never tuned into Star Trek. Then I think of something even funnier. "Are we there yet?"

Now she grins back and I nearly swoon at the power of that smile and what it does to me. "A few more blocks."

"'Kay." I snuggle against her and revel in the feel of her arm against my neck. That's the last I remember before sleep claims me.

***** 

Consciousness comes only gradually, soft edges sharpened by her voice in the background. When I groan, she stops talking and comes over to me. "Vaughn?"

"Yeah." My first mistake is trying to sit up without assistance. Weak and woozy from my misadventure, I am not in any shape to navigate on my own. While I've graduated to normal vision, my gut has its own agenda. I clutch my stomach and gasp, "S-syd, I have to…."

With lightning speed, she grabs the wastebasket and I score. Several embarrassing minutes later, the churning subsides (for the moment). "Sorry."

"No problem." She extends her arms and helps me to the bathroom. Where I proceed to pay homage to the porcelain god, embracing its sides with trembling hands. Wave after wave of nausea wracks my frame and I shudder after each attack. Too sick to care that I'm at my absolute lowest point, relieved that she's here for me. When it finally passes, I'm ready to be laid out at the morgue. Figuring that dead is better than this. 

I finally manage to stand without help and she points to the shower. "Sure," I say.

"Strong coffee?" she asks, and I guess she's already ordered it.

"Yeah. Thanks," I say huskily, noticing her beauty for about the millionth time. She stares back for a moment, then nods and turns away.

The door closes, and I look down at my clothes. Splattered in vomit and stinking of regurgitated Martell. Definitely ready for burial. I leave a trail of debris on my quest for cleanliness and sigh as the first drops hit my shoulders. 

I let the water pound at me, hissing as its heat sears my body, punishing me for my night on the town. My head drops and the shower cascades around me as I finally get around to the business of lathering up.

Scrub away the guilt. Wash away the angst (not possible). Rid myself of the demons that continue to haunt me (not in this lifetime).

Time passes and I finally emerge, stunned at the sight of clean clothes and a pot of coffee. I sidle closer, not believing my eyes, hands finding my favorite pair of jeans and the blue sweater that Memere knit for me last year. My throat closes with emotion as I get dressed, tugging a comb through my hair and running the shaver over my jaw. When I finally finish, I pour out some coffee and crack open the door.

She's sitting in an armchair, legs folded Indian style, nose buried in a novel by Virginia Woolf. Her head raises and she smiles shyly. "Feel better?"

I smile back and look around me. "Yes."

"You ready to talk?" Syd closes the book and lets it slide to the floor. 

It all comes slithering back. My real reason for being here. Partying with my buddies on purloined puffs. And the phone call from a ghost. "We don't have much time," I say, trying not to panic, sensing that collective dark forces are about to throw me another bone.


	9. 9

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

I've never been much for talking. To me, actions speak louder than words. So I care, but I usually don't emote. But sitting here in a darkened room with my fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of java has loosened my tongue, and I ramble on at length.

Reliving the Christmas Eve when I left home, never to return. The long bus trip to Manhattan and my first visit to The Cloisters. Busting my hump at a series of thankless jobs. Discovering the art of the pool hustle at John's Bar (where she'd found me today). Drowning my soul with beer and ganja, only living for that next fix. And then that momentous day when Sharon strolled into my life. Reading the next magazine (Popular Science) on the corner kiosk. Shivering through her thin jacket as the January wind cut through her. Honey hair caught up in an elegant twist, sculptured legs spilling out of her little black dress. Killing time before her Broadway audition (newly graduated from Columbia's theatre program).

I can still see her so clearly, cut away from the gray Manhattan skyline like the finest crystal, sparkling and shimmering with her innocence. It radiated from her and lifted my head from between the folds of the latest Mad magazine (visions of Spy vs Spy dancing in my brain). Where I caught her grinning at me (Julia Roberts wide) with all those perfect teeth (6 years of braces). And then she asked if I'd like to go for coffee.

Sharon was the happiest person I've ever known. The time of day didn't matter, she always had a ready smile and a cheerful word. It never grated (like those phony bliss bunnies that clog every office) and it invariably lifted my spirits. So I let her sweep me along in her joy parade, dancing to whatever tune that played on her agenda. On her first try, she landed a substantial part on Broadway, and I thought maybe my luck was changing.

She called me her work in progress, and little by little, she whittled away at all my bad habits. My smokes were the first to leave, with the promise that she'd never kiss me again unless I ditched them. Then she went after my bottles, dumping every last one of them down the drain, swearing that she'd throw me out if she came across any others. By that time, I was camped in her spare bedroom, trying my feeble hand at painting after all these years. And she encouraged my talent, urging me to return to school and really apply my skills. 

So I did it. Graduating in less than three years with a fine arts degree and a minor in poly sci (just in case). A winter graduate (like her) without a prospect in sight. We talked about law school (Stanford) and she helped me fill out all the paperwork. By that last day, it was pretty much a done deal. Oh, how we celebrated when that acceptance letter arrived. Dancing and singing through the wee hours and into the next day (Christmas), arms joined as we traipsed through the streets. Ending up at the skating rink, where she slid on some oversized skates and put everyone to shame.

That was the last time I saw her. She didn't come that night or the next and I finally called the police. It was 6 months and 3000 miles later when I got the call that nearly destroyed me. All these years, I've been half a man. Going through the motions, doing my job, barely subsisting on an emotionally bankrupt palette. There were lots of women, but they never lasted past the second date. 

And then I met Alice (fidele), whose name means noble. Tireless charity organizer and all around good person. She lives up to her name, but I think she exists on a higher plane that excludes the rest of the world, communing with the angels and looking down on us lesser lights. I always feel inferior when I hang with Alice, like I have to meet some impossible standard that I'll spend my life trying to fulfill. So we tried again, but it was already unraveling by the time her father died. And it took my almost demise to realize that Alice was a pit stop on the road to Syd. 

So here we sit, knees to our chests as we stare into the flames of the gas fire. And her hand finds mine, drawing it into her lap, surrounded by the finely boned warmth of her fingers. "It's time," she says with a sigh.


	10. 10

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

Fort Tryon Park  
The Cloisters

I roam through unearthly gardens, morphed into fantastic shapes by the veil of winter that envelops the landscape. Moonlit diamonds crunch under expensive Italian leather and I smirk, knowing my mother would disapprove. My feet find the path to the river's edge, and I marvel at the reflection of a million lights, captured by the silvery swells of the Hudson.

Behind these walls is a slice of the past that leaves the city behind, and for a time, I try to do the same. Pretend that it doesn't hurt. Wipe away the pain. Forget about the way she looked on that last day, parting with a promise to meet later.

But I can't do it. _She_ won't let me. There's no escape for the guilty, and I've failed her on every level. 15 years gone by, and her killer still roams free. 

It's not just the guilt; I feel her around me. Smell her scent. Catch a glimpse in a passing crowd. _Reminding_ me.

And now she's warned me of impending doom. Frosting my already shivering frame with a layer of ice. Distracting me from my primary objective.

As I approach the West Terrace, Kendall's words come back to me.

"You'll arrive separately, posing as art dealers."

Brother and sister, no less. Kim and Laura Stanwyck. I roll my eyes, glad that Kendall can't read my mind as I scan my dossier, wondering if they ripped this out of a Barbara Cartland novel (heaped on my mother's night stand). 

"Interesting," I say, tucking the folder under my left arm. "Why risk Syd's cover by sending her out of town?"

He raises an eyebrow and looks away. "We're expecting trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" An obvious question, but one I have to ask.

Kendall shrugs and steps away. "Good luck, Agent Vaughn."

So here I am, slip sliding away on the steps of the West Terrace, waiting for a match to flare against a cupped hand. 

My signal that the target is in sight.

New York is an easy excuse for them, but it's not the right answer. When they vetted me, they dug into every nook and cranny of my background. It bought me a top secret clearance and hung my privacy out to dry.

"You have an aunt named Trish?" A voice that crackles like dead leaves.

"Yeah." Monosyllables piss them off, and I'm awarded with a glare from a pair of rheumy eyes.

"And you're close to her." That is not a question.

It had been a dozen years since our last meeting. "Not really."

"Patrice Moreau." He butchers her name and I manage not to wince at his accent. "Keeps interesting company, wouldn't you say?"

"I wouldn't know." Trish's life is her own business.

"She's spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe." Like that's a crime or something.

"So? Maybe she likes their art." Or maybe she just likes boning the artists.

He takes off his glasses and sighs. "Your aunt hangs out with commies."

"Is that a crime?" The Berlin Wall has crumbled and the boundaries between sides have blurred considerably.

"Maybe." It ends there, and I breathe a little easier. But all these years later, I wonder why that particular memory comes to mind. I don't believe in prescience, though Trish lives and dies on the turning of a tea leaf.

See, here's the thing about me and Trish. We're closer than anyone else in the family. I talk to her almost every day, though I rarely see her in person. So I know about her friends, and more than a few of her lovers. She's mentioned names that mean something to me, but I always let it pass. 

But they watch her closely. Monitor her mail. Screen her calls. It's not like I have to tell her, because she _knows_. About everything. Me, what I do, the people who pay my salary. And that's why I'm here today.

I'm fairly certain that she'll be here tonight. And I'm almost positive that she knows Alexei Markarov.

And they know that too. 

Light flares against the star-studded sky and I see the limo arrive, a silent black ghost that glides to a halt at the curb. I move closer, needing to confirm what I already know in my heart. A man emerges, tall and spare, limping slightly from the arthritis that plagues him. He offers his arm to someone and she steps out, red hair clipped into an elegant chignon, sparkling with the joie de vivre that defines her existence. But then he turns to help someone else, and that's when my jaw drops in stunned recognition.

The last person I expect to see. Elise Marie Delorme. My maternal grandmother, accompanied by her beloved _Alex_.


	11. 11

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

There's no excuse really. I should have known, or at least guessed that something like this might happen. I think Kendall was counting on it (bastard). With connections like mine, the rest should be easy, right? 

Wrong. It's never easy…doing what we do. Battle lines are constantly drawn between my conscience and the need to follow orders. And never more than now, when half my mother's family is attached to my target.

When I hear the light tap of Syd's heels, I grab her elbow and pull her into the bushes. "We have a problem." Always the master of understatement. 

She gathers her cloak around her and frowns slightly. "Sounds serious."

"Markarov has company." I palm the coin and let it slide through my fingers.

"So we distract him," Syd says with a shrug, checking her watch when she thinks I'm not looking.

"Can't. The people he's with…umm…TrishandElise." I deliberately run the words together, but she catches it anyway.

"Aunt Trish?" she asks in astonishment, delicate eyebrows rising as she mulls over this tidbit.

"The very same." I let out my breath in a long sigh.

"And Elise is…" Syd fragments the sentence and I put the pieces together for her.

"My grandmother." 

Her mouth opens and closes. "_Oh_. That is…_definitely_….like you said before…"

"Right. We should go in…_Laura_." I smirk, ducking away from her playful swat.

"Certainly, _Kim_."

We make our entrance, which is duly noted by some minor functionary (complete with clipboard). When she slides the cloak from her shoulders, heat shoots straight to my groin, nearly frying me with its intensity. The dress she is wearing sparkles and shimmers as she moves, hugging her every curve with its silken caress, cut low in the front and back and slit high on the sides, showcasing the fabulous body that I've dreamed about for months. Then she catches me staring and ducks her head to hide a smile. "Are you ready?"

I take her in one last time, letting my eyes sweep slowly from her perfectly coiffed head to the incandescent red of her lips, feeling nothing like the brother I'm supposed to be and sure that somewhere in LA, Kendall is laughing at me. With a smile, I offer my arm and we enter the gallery.

****** 

Flaky Aunt Trish is a patron of the arts. She opens her purse strings to dozens of charitable organizations and sits on the board at the Met. So it's no surprise that she's practically camped on the lap of the museum's director, hands wandering down his shoulders as she whispers in his ear. 

Syd sees me staring. "Is that Trish?"

I nod, feeling the heat rise into my cheeks. "Unfortunately."

She seems to enjoy the fact that I'm blushing. "Can't wait to meet her."

At that moment, Trish raises her head and stares straight at me, sensual lips curving into a dangerous smile, seeming not at all surprised that I'm here. Her green eyes flick to Syd, who's chatting with an amorous oaf from Christie's, and she gives me a thumb's up. I smile tightly and turn my attention to the crowd, wondering why Markarov has yet to make an appearance. 

I wend my way through the artsy throng, nearly fainting from the melange of cologne that assaults my senses, wondering if they bathe in it. A tall woman with dark hair glides through the fringes of the crowd, catching my eye as she disappears through a doorway. 

Something in the way she moves…I've seen that before….somewhere. The long strides of a dancer…assured…maybe a predator. 

I start after her, sure that Syd is hot on my heels. "Did you see her?" I gasp, putting on the brakes before I tumble down a staircase.

She pulls on my arm and I look behind me. At the far end of the hall is a large mirror, reflecting the mocking smile of an assassin. 

_Ana Espinosa._

And we both know why she's here.


	12. 12

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

AN: I apologize for the very short chapter, but my time has been very tight this week and I wanted to at least offer a short update.

12

_Convergence_. Isn't that what they call it? It's the kind of thing that always happens to someone else. Forces on a collision course with danger, or Sydney's life in a nutshell. You see it all the time on TV, where impossible coincidences happen with amazing regularity. But in this life, or what passes for real, it's utterly impossible. 

I blink my eyes and she's gone. "Syd…"

"I'm on it." She sprints away, pumps crashing against the wall as she loses them.

We aren't completely lost at sea. Kendall sent two extra men and I warn them about Ana. "Sweep the area. Make sure no one gets out."

The phone goes back in my pocket and I turn to see Trish. She smiles, even offers a hand, but I keep my distance. "We have to find her."

"Yes." She starts down the hall and stops. "Are you coming?"

My mind is a spinning vortex, but I follow along. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Trish shrugs as we reach the lower level, peering into various galleries for our elusive subjects. "Your CIA wants to cut deals."

"Yes." Better not to lie when she already reads me like a book.

She stops in front of a tapestry. "This will not end well."

Of course not. Happy endings are for romantic fools. "Why is…Elise here?"

Trish finds the door to the outside and beckons with one hand. "Alex insisted. They're joined at the hip…did you know?"

I shake my head and shiver involuntarily. "We have to get there first."

The wind cuts like a knife, and she offers a grateful nod when I wrap my jacket around her. "This way," she intones mournfully, pointing to several sets (three) of footprints in the snow.

Where can they be? Why would they go off like this, leaving the relative safety of the museum behind? Is it paranoia that drives him, or something more intrinsic? And why drag my grandmother into it? If his life was in danger, then so was hers. I say the very thing that I most dread. "Ana always gets her man."

Trish hums eerily and bends down to trace the outline of a slippered foot. "Yes."

She straightens and stares at some shrubbery. "There."

"What is…" The words die in my throat when I spot the trail of red. Moving closer, I nearly choke at the sight of a lifeless face, soulless eyes staring up at the night sky, hair permanently parted by the bullet that slammed into his brain.

_Markarov's chauffeur._

"We are close," Trish says, and that's when I hear the cough of a silencer.


	13. 13

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

13

There's no room for emotion. But I can't help myself. This is family, and damnit, it's _personal_. My fists ball up and my Sig Sauer falls into my hand, fingers releasing the safety as I run toward the noise I just heard.

Another bark and I duck from the bullet that nearly takes my life. With a twist of my body, I roll to the ground and dive into the brush. The assault follows me, and that's when I know.

_Ana has company. _

She's distracting Syd and her second is holding me off. Taking their time, picking off the enemy, and taking down Markarov. If I stay here, I'm as good as dead, so I might as well surprise him. A shadow falls on the snow and I explode into action. Launching myself into the air and crashing into bones and sinew (solid, like the ancient bole of a sequoia). My muscles scream at me, but the element of surprise is on my side and I send him flying. He stumbles, cracking his head against an oak tree, finished off by the butt of my pistol.

Dead to the world, but alive in every other sense. Careful probing finds two pistols (Kalashnikov), a knife, and 10 rounds of ammo. I pocket the clips and one of the guns in my waistband. The blade finds its way to my ankle sheath and I hand the second piece to Trish, who has somehow managed to catch up with me.

"I'll take care of him," she says with a leer, gun trained on the burly Russian.

I should smile back, even tell her that everything will work out fine. But this is Trish, and who am I kidding? We both know the truth. 

Time has run out.

****** 

I can hear her sobbing. So distinctive, even after all these years. Memory lends me little, but I remember Elise crumpled at the feet of her second husband (dead from an aneurysm). Now it's a different man, but the song remains the same.

_Tant pis_. At least she's alive.

Nothing can prepare me for what I see in front of me.

_So much blood. _

The moon dips from behind a cloud and I spot them.

_Did all that come from one man?_

Staining the carpet of snow. Crimson black on diamond white. 

_Jack Frost's abattoir._

And that's when I fall over my own feet (star-gazing). My eyes open and I'm face to face with a dead man. I look further and my breath freezes in my throat when I see the others. Corpses stacked like dried kindling, all sparks of life extinguished. 

I start counting and stop at a half dozen, sure that I recognize the waterfall of raven hair that's escaped from its braid. Agent Aileen McKillip, out on her first mission. And over there is her partner…when the anger comes, it burns through my shock and flares like a supernova (Type II). Pushing me to my feet and propelling me down the path of no return.

***** 

She's more beautiful than ever, silver hair streaming down her shoulders as she mourns for a man she barely knew. And when she looks up, surprise barely registers in her eyes. "Michel," she whispers, scrubbing at the matchless aquamarine eyes that have inspired an entire generation of painters.

I kneel down, touching her shoulder briefly. "Are you OK?" A loaded question if ever one existed.

"L'aider," she implores weakly.

_Too late._

More dead than alive, thready pulse at his neck, viscera gleaming through his fingers. I shake my head, already focused on the final outcome. "Trop tardif," I say robotically. Barely seeing her terrified stare as I spot another track. Two sets of bloody footprints, one without shoes.

The rage cools to a simmering slow burn that lies in wait. Knowing what I'll find when the trail ends. 

Destruction greets me at every turn. The splintered remains of branches, charred by the fire that someone used to toast the other. Or the bloody imprint of two bodies in the snow, creating devilish designs as they struggled. And the crunch of shell casings, cracking under my feet like fine bones. A morbid testament of a fight to the death.

The trees and I part ways and the river unfolds at my feet. When I look back, the West Terrace glimmers in the distance. Back where I started, coming full circle to the final showdown.

***** 

They're out on the ledge. Shadow-boxers, backlit by a full moon and the star-studded band of the Milky Way.

Grunts of pain as carefully aimed blows meet their mark. The hiss of Ana's anger when Syd gets the best of her. And the death beetle click of my safety. 

I raise my firing arm at the exact moment Syd sees me. It throws her off and Ana lands a karate chop against her carotid artery that knocks her flat. And then the focus is on me. 

The sight of Ana's smile is a thing of pure evil. She advances a few feet and stops, head cocked in feigned curiosity. "I have seen you before, Mr. CIA."

She walks a few steps closer and I aim the gun at her. "Stop right there," I order, hating the tiny quiver in my voice that betrays my fear.

Ana chuckles. "You think your little gun will stop me, _Agent_ Vaughn?" 

She suddenly falls to the ground and comes up shooting. A ball of fire rips through my left shoulder and the pistol drops from my now lifeless hand. I watch in horror as that tiny black bore is leveled at my skull, trigger pulled slowly back by her perfectly manicured finger, its scarlet color matching her vividly contoured lips.

I start to lose my grip on reality and the last thing I remember is the terrible rictus of her smile, a perfect match for the hole that suddenly flowers on her forehead.

***** 

Epilogue coming soon


	14. Epilogue I

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

Epilogue I

"It was never a dangle operation."

Silence on the other end of the phone while Weiss plays with his yo-yo. "Is that what they told you?"

The Demerol is wearing off and I'm in a pissy mood. "They told me to meet with him, see what he has to say, and get the hell out of there."

"Why would Kendall lie?" he asks through a mouthful of Reuben on rye.

There are so many ways I could answer, but this is Eric, best buddy and confidante. "Damned if I know. Maybe it was an honest mistake."

He coughs and I hear a laugh in the mix. "C'mon, Mike…we both know why they sent you."

I sigh, rubbing my throbbing left eye. "Yeah. And here I am…_alive_."

He chuckles mirthlessly, then says, "Markarov was the real deal, wasn't he?" 

My grandmother seemed to think so. "I think he was…_sincere_." And it got him killed (just like my Dad).

"Did they debrief you?" Weiss asks quietly.

"In excruciating detail." Five hours of intense scrutiny while I sweated under their halogen lamps (Randall's stolen cigars dropped below their radar).

"Christ," he offers in sympathy. "Want me to meet you at LAX?"

"That would be great. See you tomorrow."

***** 

My report is a blank page with a blinking cursor, mocking me with its pixelated energy. I want to hurl the screen through the window, but I might disturb the other passengers, so I sit there and stare at nothing.

You know what a dangle is, right? It's like giving candy to a little kid. Offer up something irresistible and they'll bite, only we're talking about the very large teeth of the CIA. So someone passes the message that they want to trade information and screw the motherland. Only the joke's on us, because they're really passing bogus intel. After being burned a few too many times, the CIA got wise to the rules and started shooting the shit back at them. 

Of course, the Cold War is over and they've mostly stopped pinging us. There are occasional floaters, but we ignore most of them. But you can't ignore someone like Markarov. When a big fish approaches one of our assets, we sit up and listen. 

He was willing to spy on his own people. I'm sure of that now. And I'm also sure that someone caught wind of it and sent Ana to clean up. 

That night comes back to me, festering in my head like raw sewage, and I can't make it add up. 

The shot that killed Ana was fired from my Sig Sauer. Ballistics proves that, and my prints are all over it. Open and shut case. Write it down, file the report, and it's over. Get a slap on the wrist and a black mark in my file and life goes on. 

Easy come, easy go. But not for someone like me, who has an actual conscience and the desire to do the right thing. So I can't write this one off. If I have to take the fall, then so be it. 

I still don't know what happened that night, but I want the truth, even if it kills me.

***** 

How do I start my report when I don't know the ending? Did it begin with Sharon's phone call, or were the seeds planted on that long ago day when she resurrected me?

If I remember nothing else, I remember my rage. I was a fuse, waiting to be lit. And that is completely in line with the way I usually act. Emotional, hot under the collar, totally reactive. You know what they call me at the office? Volcano. Lame (I know), but completely accurate. 

Jumping the Russian the way I did…_totally_ me. No argument there.

But after that…man, I'd have to say I was tripping. 'Cuz Ana Espinosa is lethal…I know this in my bones. And she scares the best of us, but I'd _never_ let her see my fear. And to hesitate like I did when I had a clear shot…totally _not_ me.

So if it wasn't me, then who was it?

***** 

More coming later this week


	15. Epilogue II Conclusion

Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn  
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)

Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.

mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.

Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.

***** 

Epilogue II  
Los Angeles  
Three days later

"I didn't do it." Heavily accented English, wreathed by the perpetual cloud of smoke that follows her everywhere.

"Of course not." With a sigh, I consider what this means, besides the fact that my job is on the line. 

Trish raises an eyebrow as she exhales. "Of course, there is another possibility…"

"It's not an option," I say quickly, words sharpened by my anxiety.

She chuckles and shakes her head. "But you insist on the truth, yes?"

"What version?" I'm a black and white kind of guy, but my aunt colors her universe with myriad shades of gray.

Trish stamps out her cigarette and lights another one. "That depends," she answers after a long beat.

We could draw this out for an entire afternoon. "On what?"

"You know the answer to that, Michel." With a toss of her hair, she offers a smile to a passing child on his way to the playground.

Trish was my last hope for salvation. I mean, she's never listened to me before and why should she start now? "Sharon couldn't possibly…" I blurt out foolishly, words dying in my throat when I see the gleam in her eyes.

"Are you sure? Because Elise is telling a different story." Her arms are crossed and I see she means business.

My grandmother, the Manhattan miracle. Cringe-worthy headlines plastered on every New York daily. "Saved by an angel," is passed from street corner to taxi stand, from the lowliest urchin to the highest levels of New York society. "She was hallucinating," I mutter, dropping my eyes to the dusty tips of my shoes.

Trish raises her chin proudly, green eyes glittering dangerously. "Your grandmother is many things, but a liar? You know better than that."

I hang my head in shame. "Sorry, it's just…"

To my surprise, she pats my arm in commiseration. "You're still grieving."

That brings my head up, and I start to protest. "But…"

"I saw her," she says quietly, dropping her bombshell with perfect precision. "She was _there_. Watching the two of you."

Me and Syd. _Together_, but not really. "Why didn't I see her?"

I expect her usual Gallic shrug, but she stops and stares at me through her bangs. "You've seen her before?"

The question catches me off guard and I start to stammer, "M-maybe. I'm not sure."

"But not on that night?" When I shake my head, she adds, "Perhaps you sensed her presence?"

It all comes flooding back, drowning my head with a vivid series of stills. Shadowy figures fighting. Sydney catching sight of me. Ana knocking her to the ground. And me hovering in the background, shaking with fear, even hesitating, never calling out to Syd like I always do. Red lips, accessorized with a matching bullet hole.

"Yes." 

***** 

Los Angeles  
December 31st

The phone rings and I hear her voice on the answering machine. "I'm worried about you. Please call me back."

From my perch on the couch, I can see the red light blinking. Reminding me that my return to the real world is imminent, that I have to eventually face the music. 

There's the small matter of my delinquent report, lying fallow on my hard drive, which is really the least of my problems.

And there's Alice, suddenly gone from my life. Not even a polite phone call to ask how I'm doing. 

Last but not least is the woman who keeps calling me. Lovely Syd, eyes brimming with emotion from the open wound of her life.

Something drives me to pick up the phone. "Can you get away?"

"Sure."

I supply an address. "See you in an hour."

****** 

Rosedale Cemetery

"Issey Miyake," I whisper as she comes up behind me, throat closing with emotion at that comforting scent.

Syd touches my shoulder and moves to a respectful distance. "It's beautiful here."

I nod my head in agreement and open my fingers when she clasps my hand. "Yes."

"They're asking a lot of questions," she says quietly.

At any other time, that would have pissed me off, but I'm too tired to care what they think of me. "Sorry."

"You want to talk about it?" Syd squeezes my hand and draws me down a nearby path that winds between graves.

We walk for awhile as I gather my thoughts. "You've read the ballistics report."

I stop to face her and she nods solemnly. "The Sig killed her."

"And you heard my testimony?" That is a bit of ugliness that will forever tarnish my record.

"Dad gave me the Reader's Digest condensed version."

Sure he did. "None of it adds up."

"So what really happened?" She fingers her throat and I see the fading bruise from the blow that nearly took her life.

I open my mouth and the words won't come. They stick to my craw, refusing to come out of their usual closet. After a few deep breaths, I manage to say, "It was Sharon."

Syd shudders and her hand falls away from mine. "That could be a problem."

Tell me about it. "Yeah."

She gathers her coat around her and slides her hands inside the sleeves. "So what will you tell them?"

That's the 64,000 dollar question. With a shrug, I walk toward a monument and hope that Mrs. Danforth doesn't mind me leaning on it. "Not sure."

"I could help…I mean, if you want," Syd says breathlessly, eyes scanning my face before she looks away. "Words are kind of…my thing."

"Thanks." It's hard to remember that behind the double agent lies the distance promise of a real life.

"So Trish came to see you." And Weiss has a really big mouth, which is the only way she could have known. "How did that go?"

"It was _interesting_." My aunt never traveled without purpose, especially to LA.

"What did she say?" Syd's hand creeps back into mine.

I knew it wasn't a social call, 'cuz it never is that way with her. The words burn my tongue as I say, "She told me to let it go."

"Oh." Syd's eyes blink with tears as she remembers the story of Sharon. Then she adds, "It wasn't your fault, Vaughn."

I want to say that I know this and even accept it, but part of me will always doubt it. Trish had essentially told me the same thing, but her words still tore at me, reminding me that my guilt would kill me one day (like she was any judge of healthy habits). "Maybe not."

She hears a discordant note in my voice and asks, "There's more, isn't there?"

My laugh is short and bitter. "It seems that Markarov…was on the board of several charitable foundations. Umm…since my grandmother has found a new lease on life, she decided to give a large amount of money to each of his charities."

"That's really…" Syd stops when she notices my frown.

"They were fronts for K-Directorate."

Her breath rushes out of her and she looks a little green around the gills. "Does Kendall know?"

"Not yet." It's what's been keeping me up at night.

She dares to ask, "How much money?" 

I feel the battery acid that passes for morning coffee swishing around in my gullet. "Twenty million dollars."

Syd tucks her hair behind her ear and looks at the ground. "Wow. That's…"

"We're in deep shit."

She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "You missed the memorial service."

For Agent McKillip and her unfortunate partner. "I wasn't up to it."

"I understand, but Martha might not." 

Instant censure, I'm sure. Maybe I'd get lucky and she'd refuse to talk to me. "What about those other dbs?"

"Markarov's security guards." She rattled off a half dozen names in flawless Russian and I shook my head at the waste.

"And what does his government say?" I ask tightly.

She shakes her head. "It's a diplomatic nightmare."

Trish had dismissed that topic with a flick of her hand, uttering some nonsense about hating politics and not wanting to get caught in the middle. But we both knew she had friends in high places, so she probably guessed what the fallout would be. "What about my misadventure?"

Her dazzling smile startles me out of my personal gloom and I smile back when she says, "They plan on docking your pay."

It won't put me in the poor house, but I'll definitely feel the pain. "Ouch."

"So, have you heard from Alice?" Expectant and hushed as she waits for my response.

"Not recently."

"I see," she answers, hiding a smile as she turns away. I sigh, remembering the time I met her at the car wash and she made the same gesture after finding out about my fight with Alice.

"Do you? Because I don't…" 

She stops my flow of words with her hand. "Vaughn, I…do you remember what I said to you in that café?"

"Yeah." Something so small and distant, yet it looms so large on my horizon, along with her scorching touch on my mouth.

Her finger traces the curve of my lips and I can barely breathe. "I don't want to forget."

I close my eyes, head falling against her shoulder, arms finding her back, nestled by her strength and courage. "Neither do I."

Syd steps away, moving swiftly through the trees, drawing my eyes to the crown of the hill. Where Sharon stands, watching me. Dressed like she was on that very last day, golden hair wrapped in a brightly colored head scarf, fair isle sweater twisted around her neck, faded blue jeans hugging her in all the right places. 

With her hand raised in farewell, she turns with a smile and fades into the wintry afternoon. 

_You'll be all right now._

A whisper in my head. Her voice, or maybe it's mine, finally seeing the light.

The End


End file.
